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Poem of poverty
Poverty, brothers, is a mouthful that's hard to swallow, A bite that sticks in your throat and leaves you in sorrow, When you watch the pale faces and rheumy eyes Observing you like ghosts and holding out thin hands; Behind you they lie, stretched out Their whole lives through, until the moment of death. Above them in the air, as if in disdain, Crosses and stony minarets pierce the sky, Prophets and saints in many colours radiate splendour. And poverty feels betrayed. Poverty carries its own vile imprint, It is hideous, repulsive, disgusting. The brow that bears it, the eyes that express it, The lips that try in vain to hide it Are the offspring of ignorance, the victims of disdain The filthy scraps flung from the table At which for centuries Some pitiless, insatiable dog has fed. Poverty has no good fortune, only rags, The tattered banners of a hope Shattered by broken promises. Poverty wallows in debauchery. In dark corners, together with dogs, rats, cats, On mouldy, stinking, filthy mattresses, Naked breasts exposed, sallow dirty bodies, With feelings overwhelmed by bestial desire, They bite, devour, suck, kiss the sullied lips, And in unbridled lust the thirst is quenched, The craving stilled, and self-consciousness lost. Here is the source of the imbeciles, the servants and the beggars Who will tomorrow be born to fill the streets. Poverty shines in the eyes of the newborn, Flickers like the pale flame of a candle Under a ceiling blackened with smoke and spider webs, Where human shadows tremble on damp stained walls, Where the ailing infant wails like a banshee To suck the dry breasts of its wretched mother Who, pregnant again, curses god and the devil, Curses the heavy burden of her unborn child. Her baby does not laugh, it only wastes away, Unwanted by its mother, who curses it, too. How sorrowful is the cradle of the poor Where a child is rocked with tears and sighs. Poverty's child is raised in the shadows Of great mansions, too high for imploring voices to reach To disturb the peace and quiet of the lords Sleeping in blissful beds beside their ladies. Poverty matures a child before its time, Teaches it to dodge the threatening fist, The hand which clutches its throat in dreams, When the delirium of starvation begins And when death casts its shadow on childish faces, Instead of a smile a hideous grimace. While the fate of a fruit is to ripen and fall, The child is interred not maturing at all. Poverty labours and toils by day and night, Chest and forehead drenched in sweat, Up to the knees in mud and slime, And still the empty guts writhe in hunger. Starvation wages! For such a daily ordeal, A mere three or four leks and an 'On your way.' Poverty sometimes paints its face, Swollen lips scarlet, hollow cheeks rouged, And body a chattel in a filthy trade. For service in bed for which it is paid With a few lousy francs, Stained sheets, stained face and stained conscience. Poverty leaves a heritage as well, Not cash in the bank or property you can sell, But distorted bones and pains in the chest, Perhaps leaves the memory of a bygone day When the roof of the house, weakened by decay, By age and the weather collapsed and fell, And above all the din rose a terrible cry Cursing and imploring, as from the depths of hell, The voice of a man crushed by a beam. Under the heel, says the priest, of a god irate Ends thus the life of a dissolute ingrate. And so the memory of such misfortunes Fills the cup of bitterness passed to generations. Poverty in drink seeks consolation, In filthy taverns, with dirty, littered tables, The thirsting soul pours glass after glass Down the throat to forget its many worries, The dulling glass, the glass satanic, Caressing with a venomous bite. And when, like grain under the scythe, the man falls To the floor, he giggles and sobs, a tragicomic clown, And all his sorrow in drink he drowns When one by one, a hundred glasses downs. Poverty sets desires ablaze like stars in the night And turns them to ashes, like trees struck by lightning. Poverty knows no joy, but only pain, Pain reducing you to such despair That you seize the rope and hang yourself, Or become a poor victim of 'paragraphs.' Poverty wants no pity, only justice! Pity? Bastard daughter of cunning fathers, Who like the Pharisees, beating the drum Ostentatiously for their own sly ends, Drop a penny in the beggar's hands. Poverty is an indelible stain On the brow of humanity through the ages. And never can this stain be effaced By doctrines decaying in temples Category:Poems Category:Albanian Poetry